


we grow forests in our bones so our memories can't find us

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Meetings, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Joins SHIELD, POV Clint Barton, Partnership, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was Natalia Romanova, she became Natasha. He was Clinton Francis Barton, he became simply Clint. This is their story.</p><p>(or, the story of beginnings, and how Natasha Romanov met Clint Barton.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we grow forests in our bones so our memories can't find us

**Author's Note:**

> This has literally been over a year in progress with a lot of starts, stops, revisions and "oh god, where am I going." But it's done. It's out of my hands. Major, insane thanks to the lovely [geckoholic](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic) for catching my embarrassing missing letters (among other things) and to my constant cheerleaders - you know who you are. No story would exist without you constantly pushing me to write when I'm entirely stuck.
> 
> Title from [this tumblr post/graphic](http://manahil1234.tumblr.com/post/96554458133).

She was born Natalia Alianovna Romanova to parents in a small town just outside the capital of Russia, with dark red hair and green eyes and a birthmark on her right kneecap. She knew love, for a little bit – if she could ever remember. She knew a home, for a little bit – if she could ever remember.

He was born Clinton Francis Barton to a drunken father and a passive mother in small town Iowa, with dirty blonde hair and an agility that, even then, transcended the skills of most boys his age. He knew love, for a little bit – if he could ever remember. He knew a home, for a little bit – if he could ever remember.

She was Natalia Romanova, she became Natasha. He was Clinton Francis Barton, he became simply Clint. This is their story.

_________________________________________

There’s a light snow dotting the ground, white dust that’s just beginning to stick as Clint steps into the town square. The soles of his boots tread lightly against the cobblestones, his bow pressed comfortably against his back underneath his thick jacket, and he does a once, twice over around the marketplace before slipping between a few stands and ducking unnoticed into a small alley.

Clint stoops through the small door a little ways down the narrow corridor that opens just slightly, leading into a windowless bunker that houses nothing more than a table, a bed, and a mini-fridge. He carefully undresses, lays his bow across the table, and lets his fingers run across its edges as he lowers himself to the mattress. Recurve, the finest, or so he’s been told – he’s used to using a compound, but it was easier to fire a larger number of custom arrows with a recurve, and he hadn’t bothered to protest the truth of that statement.

Besides, it’s not really that big of a deal. He’s spent his entire life getting used to different makes of bows, learning each of their strengths and weaknesses, figuring out how they reacted when he made a shot and the force that he had to produce in order to be successful. He knows how to manipulate bows as if they’re people, and has never met one that he couldn’t wield without the skill of having done it a thousand times before.

Clint withdraws his hand, raking it through his hair while thumbing through some information on his phone. Best to get some sleep, he thinks, since tomorrow is destined to be another 24-hour call, if he can only be that lucky. She was set to arrive at the Brussels train station somewhere between nine and midnight, provided his timing was right, and _technically_ he wasn’t supposed to do anything. Watch and learn. Observe. Gather information from a distance and pick up on anything that could be helpful, only make a move if she decides to put civilian life in danger. Later would be a different story entirely: a different setting and a different collection of arrows and a different set of clothes, and that’s where he was to take the hit and bring her in, dead or alive but preferably dead.

_She’s dangerous._

Well, no shit, Clint had thought after receiving his orders, rolling his eyes in his head. What government criminal _wasn’t_?

His hand finds the stem of the bow again, its familiar arch a comfort between his fingers. It hadn’t been his choice to take this mission, but Sitwell had told him that it would be good to get away from the office, to put more of his espionage skills to use. “The brooding Clint Barton,” he had joked and Clint had glared because what the hell, he didn’t _brood_. So what if he hadn’t been in the field for a while just because he hadn’t wanted to spend the time and energy hunting down another lead that ended up either dead or not worth his time? So what if Bobbi decided he wasn’t worth it as a person in general? He still got his job done, and besides, it wasn’t like S.H.I.E.L.D. had any shortage of agents that could take over the assignments he wasn’t keen on.

_You could prove yourself with this one. Change your life._

Clint had laughed openly at that, didn’t think he could change his life anymore than he already had, but Fury had put him on a plane before he could object and, well, that was that. He was reporting for duty whether he liked it or not, and this Black Widow – whoever she was – was the reason for it.

\----

She arrives right on time, stepping off the northbound platform at exactly 10:54, and her promptness isn’t a surprise – spies are usually punctual for a reason, one minute off when a plan is in motion and the result can be deadly. He spots her hair first, red and wild and tucked under a blue bowler’s cap, the loose strands escaping at the sides probably invisible to anyone who lacked the sharpness of his vision. Clint takes notice first of the way she walks, her stride sure and confident, one hand swinging a large black bag over her shoulder as tall heels tap relentlessly against the hard ground.

He follows her from where he’s hidden up in the rafters as she moves though the crowds, his pupils darting furiously while he searches for any sign of irregularity. She slips a hand in her pocket and he tenses, pulling back on his bow, but she comes away with a fistful of money instead of a syringe or a gun. She bends over to put down her bag and he reaches for an arrow but she straightens up, bag in hand, nothing out of place. Clint frowns as she reaches the sliding doors at the front of the station’s entrance, disappearing into the distance, moving out of his sightline completely.

So. It seemed there would be no game for him to play today after all. Pity, really, since he was looking forward to releasing some pent up energy and could have stood to fire a few non-fatal shots into her leg. He relaxes, pulling his bow loosely back to his side, and clicks on his comm unit.

“She just left, looks like she’s headed west from the station. Dark overcoat. Blue bowler’s hat.”

“Copy that. We have men outside who are prepared to follow and report,” Coulson replies crisply, and Clint can almost envision his stoic, unemotional face as if it’s two feet in front of him and not half a world away.

“Stand down, Barton. Go to your hotel and wait for further instruction.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clint shoulders his quiver, adjusting his bow across his back, and repels back down the shadowy part of the wall with quiet agility. He lands squarely on his feet in a small patch of darkness blocked by construction equipment, and does a quick scan of the area before turning to meet a hard pressure against his back.

“Don’t move.”

The Widow’s voice is as cold as the gun crammed into his spine, and he breathes out slowly, mentally measuring the ways this could go as he does so.

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” he says finally, adhering to her request and keeping his body stone still, even as she slides her gun from his back and moves it to his temple so that she can position herself in front of him. The oversized hat still obscures most of her hair and a scarf covers the bottom half of her face, and in the dim light all he can see are her eyes, which gleam green and menacing and deathlike.

“How did you know where to find me?” the girl asks in the same cold tone, and Clint bites down on his tongue.

“How did you get past my team?” he returns as confidently as he can, meeting her gaze. He can tell she’s surprised at the way he’s retaliating, quickly figures that she’s used to men (and for that matter, probably women) being too scared to talk or even move in her presence.

“My little secret. But let’s just say that for a high level security organization, your men are not as good as they pretend to be,” she replies emotionlessly, and Clint lets out a sigh.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The Widow smiles and a grin bleeds through the thin fabric of her scarf, the pull of her lips parting to reveal a sea of white. _Wolves,_ Clint thinks instantly, without even knowing why. _Wolves and girls. Both have sharp teeth._ She clicks off the safety of the gun and he closes his eyes, waits for the arrival of his death, but is surprised instead by the feel of her lips against his ear as she leans in, stroking the skin around his neck as if she’s an animal marking her prey, studying him to figure out which parts are expendable and which are worth saving – if any are worth saving at all.

“Not yet.”

She turns and disappears into the crowd before Clint can respond, leaving him to stare at the now empty space, rooted to the ground while his mind tries to wrap itself around everything that’s just happened.

\---- 

Clint still feels like he’s floating somewhere between annoyance and bewilderment when he returns to his hotel, pushing open the door with an almost irritated force before throwing his bow onto the bed. He drags a frustrated hand across his forehead as he flops down in the oversized chair, grabbing for his phone with a glower. Still nothing from Coulson, but Clint can’t imagine his handler – not to mention other agents – didn’t at least overhear through their own comms what happened at the train station, which meant that facing judgment was inevitable.

Might as well make the most of his time before he was made to feel incompetent by everyone in existence. He opens his suitcase and rummages through a few layers of clothing before coming away with a six pack of imported beer, grabbing one off the ring and proceeding to down it in seconds before opening another.

She was good. He had to admit that she was good. He had never met anyone who could match his skill, stealth-wise, or who could react so quickly without losing their cool. It was the type of thing that he always heard around the office – whispers of people who looked at him almost as if they were scared of him, because everyone wanted to meet with Clint Barton or train with Clint Barton, and yet everyone seemed to avoid Clint Barton because they figured they could never be as good as Clint Barton.

It sucked more than he would ever let on, to be so popular and still so alone, but at this point he was pretty much used to it.

He shifts slightly in the chair as he gets up, throwing an empty beer can in the trash next to the door. When he turns, he’s met with the surprise of a figure standing next to the window, which is cracked slightly ajar, just high enough for someone with a superior amount of nimbleness to wiggle through. Clint unleashes a string of curse words in his head as he grabs for his bow, stringing an arrow in seconds.

“So now you stalk my hotel, too?” He’s too surprised to be worried, and figures if she’s been standing there and hasn’t killed him yet that she at least wants some kind of conversation, either for her own amusement or to gain some kind of intel for whoever she’s working for.

“I told you. You Americans aren’t very hard to find.” The Widow moves into the light, her boots moving soundlessly against the floor. She’s dressed in black from head to toe and her scarf this time is also black, cloaking her in almost complete camouflage. While she’s forgone a hat for this outing, her red hair is still somewhat hidden, pulled back tight and leaving barely visible traces of color against her scalp. Clint lowers his eyes.

“How long have you been here?”

She shrugs. “Long enough to know that you don’t like to be beaten.”

“You didn’t beat me.” Clint doesn’t know why he’s suddenly getting so defensive over someone that’s supposed to be a mark, a goddamn mark and nothing more. _Don’t make this personal_ , Sitwell had warned before he shipped off, because he knew how Clint reacted when he was told what to do. Well, tough shit. Besides, it wasn’t him. _She_ was making it personal. It wasn’t him who was pursuing her, sneaking through windows and following tracks.

“I beg to differ,” she intones, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear she was smirking behind her mask. The irritation finally bubbles over, sending waves of hot anger through his stomach.

“What the hell do you want?” He feels his voice rising, and fights down his frustration. “Information? Whereabouts of my team?”

She moves quietly around him, her movements so quick that he can barely keep track of where she’s placing herself until she’s moved back in front of his face, still maintaining enough of a distance to keep herself half-hidden in the shadows.

“You.”

“Me.” Clint replies flatly, arching an eyebrow that he knows she probably can’t see. Or maybe she can, he considers as his next thought, since at this point he wouldn’t put much past her.

“What, you can’t find another well-groomed man to do your bidding? I’ve seen your work.”

“I know you have,” the Widow responds lightly as she sits down on the bed, tracing a fingernail over the covers. Clint raises his bow, authority be damned, his fingers flexing against the string as he pulls his elbow back tight across his cheek. It would be a literal shot in the dark, but he trusted his eyesight enough to be able to make a hit.

“You’re going to die.”

She looks up at that, her eyes dancing. “We’ll see.”

Before he can allow his fingers to release the arrow, she springs forward, knocking him to his knees with a swift kick that causes him to drop to the floor. His bow tangles within the curve of his legs and before he can get his wits about himself, she’s got one hand around his throat, her elbow pressing back tight against his skin.

So. It was here, then. Not a hostage situation, or a big hero mission the way he always imagined. No, after all of this, he was going to go out in his own goddamn hotel room, surrounded by beer cans and bested by a mark that he should’ve taken down when he had the chance. He swallows hard against her strong grip, trying to think of what he wants his last thought to be, but only one question comes out.

“Are you going to kill me?”

To his surprise, she moves away as quickly as she’s advanced, releasing his neck as she separates their distance again. She shrugs slowly, as if she couldn’t care less, yet her eyes betray an entirely different emotion, one that he can’t quite figure out.

“Not yet.”

She vaults out of the window the same way she came, and for the second time in 24 hours, Clint is left staring after her feeling entirely dumbfounded and entirely out of his element.

He’s beginning to really, really hate this Black Widow.

 ---- 

Coulson gives him what he’s dubbed “The Talk” after breakfast, and Clint’s just glad that he’s had a chance to down a full cup of coffee before his superior unleashes his tirade. It’s painful enough over the phone, and he imagines it wouldn’t be any more pleasant in person. The mild-mannered businessman generally tended to err on the less intense side where handlers were concerned, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t get angry when warranted. And as much as Clint hates it, he knows the anger he’s being fed right now is definitely warranted.

“Irresponsible.”

“I know.”

“You’re our best agent, Barton.”

He rubs a hand over his eyes until they start to burn. “Yeah. I got that.”

“We get _one_ shot at this. Director Fury wants results…I can’t have another train station incident. Do you understand?”

“Look, I got it, alright?” Clint finally barks out angrily, the conversation wrapping up testily on both ends before he boots the phone across the room in frustration.

He spends the rest of the day trying and failing not to brood in the small space, finishing the rest of his beer, before suiting up in preparation for his night out. He’s technically supposed to be at the gala by nine, but Coulson’s phone call puts him on edge and he ends up being ready to go three hours early. Slipping on his dress shoes and shoving a crumpled bow tie into the pocket of his black pants, he packs up his bow and quiver, taking the long way from the hotel to the main streets until he’s once again slipping in and out of the stands around the Grand Market. At an intersection behind some apartment buildings, he quietly hoists himself onto the fire escape, scaling effortlessly up side of the wall before settling himself on the roof. He’s quick enough to get himself above ground before people notice, and if anyone had managed to catch a glimpse of a man in black tie attire climbing the side of the building like Spiderman, well, he figures they could take it up with their imaginations.

The top of the Town Hall is a hazy light in the distance and Clint absently calculates, figuring he can get there in less than ten minutes if he needs to. She wasn’t due until at least ten, and even with his hour lead, he still could carve out a decent amount of time for himself that would allow him to get his act together.

Clint blows out a breath, watching small puffs of white air materialize in front of his face, shrugging off his quiver and snapping his bow open. He can just barely make out a small body of water on the other side of the building, and figures it’s probably the safest place to deploy his arrows since he doesn’t actually _want_ to kill anyone if he doesn’t have to. Not that he should be up here in the first place, and if Coulson knew any better, he’d be chewing him out through his comm right now. But, well, Coulson wasn’t here, and neither was anyone else from the ops team, and why _shouldn’t_ he be allowed to let off some steam? It would be a good warm up. As long as he still showed up on time and did his job, no one would suspect his pre-mission activities.

He loses himself in recounting the details of the night while he nocks an arrow. Her mark is an older man named Alexei Peterson, a well-known weapons manufacturer on the black market. She’s supposed to slip him a packet of money, according to intel – payment not for weaponry, but instead for inside information on scattered spots across the country where his team was putting together a string of terrorist bombs that she was to help carry out detonations of. Incidentally, he figures both of them will be easy enough to spot, the Widow with her red hair that he knows she can’t hide in a gala setting – at least, not if she plans on blending in – and the white haired older man among a sea of young socialites. He replays the short message in his head, the one that had been texted to him earlier along with the coordinates and location of tonight’s event.

 _“Intercept the package, then take her down.”_ It’s not unusual to only have half the story; Clint usually is sent on these missions to do nothing more than kill or detain and it’s never, ever about the details.

Then again, it’s never been about a mark making herself so prominently known to him before, either.

He’s on the verge making his shot when something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. It’s subtle, just enough movement to cause him to take notice, but when he turns around the movement is gone and the air around him is otherwise silent.

Clint frowns as he lets his gaze wander. He’s completely deserted, as he has been all night, but his sixth sense warns him not to let down his guard so easily. He lowers his bow and grabs his quiver, moving back down the fire escape until he reaches the middle floors of the building, spinning 360 as his feet plant into the ground. It’s only then he catches it, a swift glimpse of red disappearing around the corner, vaulting over one of the balconies above him.

_Oh, hell._

Clint follows as quickly as he can while keeping his movements as stealth as possible. The fact that she probably knows he’s here – that she’s picked up on him, that she’s most likely luring him into some sort of easy trap – pricks at the corner of his mind, but then he figures if that’s all true, at least he would die attempting to do his job as opposed to sitting in a hotel room drinking beer. _That’s something more worthy of remembrance_ , Clint thinks bitterly as he lands neatly inside the balcony she’s disappeared onto, his shoes immediately crunching down on the broken glass of the window she’s shattered in her arrival. The terrace leads directly into a large bedroom and he hears her before he sees her, pilfering around in the dark, picking up jewelry and money and whatever else she can shove into the small bag she carries. He steps silently closer, one hand reaching for an arrow.

“Not a party person, huh?”

She straightens up as if she’s anticipated his presence, and he wonders if she has. It can’t be a coincidence that she’s decided to loot here at this hour, conveniently in the same location where he was taking his own break from life.

“Not exactly,” she replies, stuffing an ornate necklace into her pocket. She continues to move through the room, as if she’s forgotten he’s there entirely or doesn’t care, and only turns after a sufficient amount of silence has passed between them.

“We seem to have a habit of bumping into each other,” she continues, and Clint scowls.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a habit,” he returns. The Widow laughs.

“Your people want to kill me, and I want to kill you.” She tilts her head to the side, as if sizing him up. “There’s no coincidence in this game, archer.”

So, he was right. She _had_ targeted him, followed him and then apparently trapped him in this room, though why she had lured him into some random burglary heist at a high-end home was beyond him, especially since he knows that she could’ve done her job five minutes ago and no one would have known. Clint breathes in and out slowly, counting to five in his head.

“You’re good.”

“I know.” She drags a finger across the bedpost almost seductively, grabbing a crystal-laden earring from the table and absently attaching it to her right lobe. “So what do we do now?”

“We could finish this,” Clint suggests, raising his bow, trying to ignore the way the earring catches in the faint moonlight and casts a shadow over eyes that seem fraught with emptiness. “No gala. No party. No back up. Just the two of us, right here, right now.”

She looks up as if considering his words and for just a moment he thinks that maybe he’s gotten lucky enough to break through, to find some compassion in her system or to at least find a common ground that might make negotiating easier. Before he can congratulate himself, however, she’s darting back the way she came, her legs disappearing outside of the window before her head sweeps back around, her eyes gleaming with something akin to ferocity.

“If you want me, you're going to have to come get me.”

It’s a challenge that he accepts without even thinking about it. She speeds back towards the roof with an impossible quickness and Clint wastes no time following her up, nimbly jumping over the slats of the fire escape, bow in hand. By the time he gets back to the top she’s already ten steps of ahead of him, her slim body swinging through the railings like one of the monkeys he used to watch when he trained with the circus.

She uses something attached to her wrist to swing herself over to the adjacent roof and Clint curses, more out of annoyance than anything else, grabbing a repelling arrow from his quiver. He shoots in her direction, springing over the ledge as he swings forward on the string of his bow, landing directly in her path.

The Widow crouches like a cat, spins and turns, her face harboring the slightest hint of mirth, a dangerous glow of adrenaline thrill in an otherwise black night.

“They didn’t tell me I was meeting Tarzan,” she deadpans quietly. She’s Russian, or at least, she’s supposed to be, but he’s noticed that there’s barely any accent to her smoky voice. Clint shrugs, grabbing a new arrow and leveling his bow.

“I prefer Legolas, actually, if we’re going with pop culture references. Better hair.”

Her face remains blank and expressionless as she sizes him up, sticking her tongue in her cheek.

“Your move.”

Clint doesn’t hesitate and releases an arrow that’s meant to find its mark in the center of her chest. At the last second, Natasha twists, throwing herself upwards in a sort of spiral somersault, landing on the other side of him. He barely has time to get a grip on his senses before she’s in his space, her smile a deadly trap of steel white. 

“My move.”

She advances without warning, her fist connecting with his arm, and the strength of her punch causes him to lose his grip on his bow as he stumbles backwards. He manages to catch himself on his knees with enough leverage to retrieve the short knife hidden in his boot, and swings it upwards with a flourish, the blade just missing the skin of her neck.

She rolls backwards, slides forward and then underneath, kicking his legs out from under him as she does so, which causes him to go down for a second time on the hard surface of the roof. His left shoulder throbs with agonizing pain but he forces himself up, struggles to put the discomfort out of his mind while using his good arm to protect himself as she starts hand-to-hand combat.

Clint grabs for a regular-tipped arrow as she goes viciously for his eyes, dragging the sharpened shaft across her cheek and drawing a line of blood that trickles down into her mouth, staining her white teeth. She cries out in shock and he uses the advantage to kick her own legs out from underneath her, pinning her body with his, one knee digging into her lower back until she’s stopped wrestling violently against his touch.

“Congratulations,” she says with a hint of resentment, almost spitting out the words. “Are you going to kill me?”

Clint looks at her, at the blood running from her face and into her mouth, at the way her eyes looks hopeful, almost eager. Wrapping her hands around her back with strong rope, he yanks her up so that for the first time, they’re finally equal, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Not yet.” 

_________________________________________

“This is out of line.”

“More out of line than you pulling me out of a mission unauthorized?” Clint asks three days later across the desk of Fury’s office, aware he's treading into waters more dangerous than he would probably ever admit to. Fury narrows his eyes while Hill places her own hands on the table.

“I pulled you out of Brussels when you failed to follow orders, putting yourself _and_ your entire team at risk. I did my job,” Hill replies, her voice clipped. “You brought in an assassin, Barton. A KGB agent, a Red Room spy, a woman who has killed more than three dozen women and children and who is a _complete_ risk to our entire organization.” She pauses, her eyes shooting daggers in his direction. “And _that’s_ out of line.”

Clint returns the glare. “I’m here, aren’t I? And no one on my team has been hurt.”

“That’s not the point,” Fury interrupts, standing as Clint rises to meet his height, speaking at the same time. 

“I think she can help.”

“And you believe that.” Fury looks like he’s about to lose it completely, and Clint doesn’t hesitate to wonder if his superior is currently thinking about all the ways he wants to slap his top agent upside the head. “Do you even know who she is?”

“The Black Widow,” Clint responds without hesitation, unearthing a thick file from underneath his jacket, throwing it on the table as Hill’s eyebrows rise into her wispy bangs.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“The file room, of course.” It’s easier than he thinks, to be so flippant, and he thinks maybe he should have started doing it a long time ago rather than letting himself be pushed around so that he could be what everyone else wanted him to be – Clint Barton, the master archer, the guy who never missed and who never refused an assignment. He also figures he’s probably on the verge of getting fired and he’s not really sure where this newfound cockiness is coming from, but if he’s going to go out, well, go out like a hero, right? 

Hill’s mouth thins into a straight line.

“That’s classified.”

“Yeah. I know.” Clint shrugs. “Like I said. Next time don’t pull me out of my own mission unauthorized, and maybe I won’t do my own research with your special files.” 

Hill seethes in his direction as all three of them stare at each other in a silent standoff, until Fury finally speaks.

“You want to take on the Black Widow? Be my guest, Barton. Be my goddamn guest. But the moment, the _single moment_ that something goes wrong, you will be in the paperwork section on indefinite hiatus faster than you can draw an arrow. Do I make myself clear?”

Clint twists his mouth into the slightest smirk, thinking that for the first time, he understands how the Widow was able to outwit so many agents with nothing more than words and a blank facial expression.

“Yes, sir.”

\----

After he returns from Brussels, no one speaks to him. It’s not unexpected – he knows how fast word travels, and that rumors travel even faster – but he’s a little surprised that the reception has overall been so cold. Nonetheless, it’s nothing more than what he’s used to, and the only thing that really gets under his skin is the way they look at him, judgment and disdain instead of awe and reverence.

He knows Fury and Hill will hold a grudge for as long as they can, but even Sitwell makes his feelings known, saying barely two words except when he has to drop off paperwork or ask a question about an assignment. Coulson has been a little more accommodating but a little less understanding, and Clint feels a little bad when he lets himself think about it, makes sure that his superiors know that none of this should be put on his team and that any and all blame should go to him. He was the one on the roof. He was the one who made the call.

And he doesn’t know why he did it, really, other than the fact that when push came to shove, he suddenly felt too personally connected to kill her. It bothered him, why she didn’t take him out when she had the chance, why she kept after him even when she could have ended his life without a single thought.

_“You.”_

He ignores the thought running through his head and instead turns the obvious answer over in his mind, the fact that every assassin likes a good cat and mouse game. Still, he can’t help the nagging feeling that it’s something more than that. And if he was going to risk his life, not to mention his job, he at least deserved to know the truth.

Or most of it.

“Romanov,” he says when he reaches the reception desk at Medical, holding up his Level Seven ID as the guard behind the counter raises a skeptical brow. He’s learned her name, finally, though he still has no idea if it’s real or just another cover, as she had refused to acknowledge more than that. But it felt better, at least, that he could attempt to make it personal with her the same way she had been doing with him.

“Heard you brought her in,” says the guard as he makes a notation on his chart, and Clint nods, shuffling his feet against the ground.

“I did.”

The guard lets out a low whistle, muttering under his breath. “Hell of a risk you took there, Agent Barton.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, damn. How’d your boss take it?”

“Look, are you gonna let me in or not?” Clint asks in frustration, rubbing his forehead. The guard looks up, nodding slowly, swinging a hand in his direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. She’s been badgering the docs all day, I think they’d be glad for a break. Good luck with that one. Seems like a bit of a bitch.”

Clint ignores him, reaching for the door as the light above buzzes green, admitting him into the infirmary. He turns the corner at the end of the hallway that leads to the psych ward and knocks once when he gets to her door, a strange kind of courtesy that for some reason he feels she might deserve.

When he enters, he finds her sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, hands clasped together. Her wrists are chained, shackled to the bed with vibranium cuffs, and he can see the faint scars on her wrist from where she must have tried to fight against them. He lets his gaze drop from her body and instead tries to focus on her face, the way her eyes tiredly judge him, the way the jagged cut on her cheek has morphed into an angry scar that bleeds into the red of her hair.

To her credit, she at least hasn’t attempted to rid herself of the S.H.I.E.L.D. issued hospital gown, its pale blue fabric an unglamorous drape against her skin. She leans back against the white walls, a splash of color against an otherwise bland and bare and unattractive canvas, and it almost causes him to double take. Clint’s well aware that holding cells for the mentally unstable tend not to be overly polished – essentially, they’re a common room for otherwise common people. 

Except Natasha Romanov was definitely not a common person, nor a common prisoner, and it showed.

He keeps his distance, unsure of how much she’ll actually trust him, deciding that playing it safe at this point is the better option.

“Tuesdays are meat days, as far as the cafeteria is concerned,” he says when he finally speaks, reaching into a paper bag and unwrapping a limp piece of beef from a roll of aluminum foil. He tears off a strip and pops it into his mouth with a shrug. “Sorry for not bringing you food, but Medical’s pretty strict about letting you guys eat stuff that doesn’t come through their channels. Maybe when you learn to trust me, I’ll be nicer.” 

“I doubt it,” Natasha snarls suddenly and Clint blows out a small breath, trying not to let his frustration show.

“What’s your deal, Natasha?”

She nearly hisses in response, and folds her arms while Clint shakes his head. “Look, you’ve refused food for nearly two days. No one here knows what to do with you, which personally, I’d take as a damn compliment. Now, me…I can either watch you starve, or I can try to be helpful.” He moves closer, pausing. “You could give me the benefit of the doubt and help me out here, and maybe we could get somewhere.”

“Starvation sounds great,” is all she says without turning her head, and he sighs loudly, one hand massaging his lower jaw.

“I just want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

Clint bites down on his lip, decides to try a different tactic entirely because what the hell, this whole thing already seems like a lost cause.

“You didn’t deserve the life you were leading before this.”

That earns him a bitter laugh, and she raises her shackled hands. “Who does? I was trained to kill, and no one would ever say I deserved to live like that.” She picks at the too crisp sheets, gazing up at him from under a swatch of black eyeliner, a dangerous glint threading through her pupils. “Do you deserve a life of being a government spy?”

“Government spy is a bit of a stretch,” Clint says slowly, a bit taken aback at the bluntness of her response. Natasha smiles, as if she’s picked up on the unsettled nature her words have produced.

“No. We’re all the same.” She points a finger in his direction as if it’s a pistol, or maybe an arrow waiting to be fired, and curls her pointer in slightly. “You pretend that you’re better than I am. Because, why? Because you save innocent people? You still lie. You still kill. You’re no better than me. Your people just believe in this…this stupid moral code that blankets all of that.”

Clint blinks, steeling his poker face against the harshness of her claim while he pushes the words out of his mind for the time being, and drums one hand against his leg.

“I want to help you,” he responds, knowing that at this point, all attempts at communication are futile, because if nothing else her responses have made that excruciatingly clear.

“I don’t want your help,” she replies roughly, and the way she leers at him, handcuffs straining to be torn from the wall reminds him of an animal caged against its will. “And I don’t want your pity.”

Clint glares, shoving himself off the bed. “Fine. Then stay here and starve. See if I even care.”

He’s halfway to the door when she calls out from behind, her voice soft, as if she’s trying to make an amend she’s realized too late might be worth it.

“Agent Barton.”

He turns to find her staring at him, and when she speaks, the coldness has returned to her tone, as if the hint of possible compassion was never there at all.

“You should’ve let me die.”

 ----

Clint walks angrily back to his room, kicking off his shoes and slamming the door behind him before driving his fist into the pillow until his fingers go numb. It was stupid, really, to think he could get anywhere with her – she was _trained_ for this, for God’s sake, she could probably keep him walking in circles for months before she ever broke.

_I should remind you, Agent Barton, that you’re not dealing with someone who just walked in off the streets._

Clint grits his teeth, punching the pillow again in response to the voice in his head. Grabbing for his arrows, he ends up in the training center, where he shoots until he can’t remember how to think.

\---- 

He goes back to Medical the next day – he doesn’t really know why, except that he feels like he has to – and the only redeeming factor about the visit is that the guard doesn’t bother to give him a hard time before allowing him inside. She’s still in the same place he’s left her 24 hours ago, and if it wasn’t for the small pad of paper sitting next to her, he would’ve figured she never moved at all.

“Whatcha writing?” he asks conversationally as he closes the door behind him, and she glares (a standard greeting, he assumes), shoving the pad under her legs protectively.

“None of your business.”

Clint sighs. “Right.” He doesn’t press but does move towards the bed, this time lowering himself to the mattress. Her gaze hardens as his body makes its approach, but she doesn’t turn away and he mentally counts that as some sort of win.

“Ready to talk yet?” He asks finally, when he thinks enough time has passed between them. He meets her eyes, and she looks always almost immediately.

“Nope,” she replies curtly, folding her arms. Clint bites down on his tongue, hoping that maybe if he just _sits_ there long enough, she’ll change her fucking mind. He steadies his body, staying impassively still, the silence stretching between them like a growing thread until he can’t possibly take it anymore.

“I told you. You lose,” she says quietly, and there’s possibly a bit of sadness hidden within the bitterness of her voice but he doesn’t let himself think about it as he gets up, not bothering to look back as the door slams closed again.

\----

He doesn’t visit her on the third day, or the fourth, instead trying to forget that she exists entirely. When he finds that he can’t, he gives up and bribes one of the junior agents into stealing some of her files so that he snoop into her progress, which admittedly isn’t much. Aside from some strange tinkering with her brain (something her previous notes had already inferred) there was nothing really _wrong_ , other than the fact that she was volatile, unstable, and an honest to god “piss me off and I’ll take you out with both my thighs” assassin. Still, it doesn’t stop him from reading her records front to back, memorizing every minute detail of what he had only let himself process halfway before.

Natasha Romanov. That was her name, technically, unless he wanted to count the sixteen other aliases that existed under her skin. He tries to research all of them, maybe to understand how she could be so many different people and do it so well, but Yulia with her straight blonde hair and Sonya with her short black tresses and Anastasia with her curly brown and gold pixie cut, it all blends together after awhile and he gets too overwhelmed.

Natasha. He would focus on just Natasha, then, Natasha with her long red curls and her fingers that looked like they could rip a man’s jugular clean out of his throat and a body that seemed as young as a teenager’s but had in reality probably seen too much war and too much death. And yet he can’t shake the fact that underneath all of that, there’s someone who just needs to be given a chance.

 _Should be trying harder_ , he thinks bitterly, throwing the file aside as he heads down to the cafeteria to grab lunch. He’s about halfway down the stairs when a voice barks out from above him, causing him to stop in his tracks.

“Barton.” 

He looks up, meeting Fury’s one-eyed gaze.

“It’s Romanov.”

Clint’s heart leaps into his throat at the words, and he waits for his boss to say it – he’s been reassigned, he’s been fired (it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, at this point), she’s broken out of her cell and killed someone and he’s responsible. Instead, in a move that seemingly surprises them both, Fury almost – _almost_ – smiles.

“She says she wants to talk. And she’s asking for you.”

\----

Clint makes it down to Medical in less than five minutes, hurrying through the corridor and fervently punching the elevator button until he’s at the ground floor, pushing open the door to her room where she’s standing straight and tall. It’s the first time he’s seen her in a different position since she was brought in, and he has to stop himself from visibly reacting.

“You wanted to see me?”

Natasha turns as much as she can, though the shackles make it near impossible. “Yes.” She eyes him up and down before continuing.

“I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

Clint knits his eyebrows together. “What offer?” He asks carefully, and Natasha smirks.

“You did make me an offer, didn’t you? During your first visit? _Let me help you_ ,” she mocks in a singsong voice, her grin turning cold, sending a tremor down his spine that he can’t control.

“So?” He crosses his arms.

“So, Agent Barton. I’m here to take you up on that.”

“That wasn’t…” Clint pauses. “That wasn’t exactly an offer,” he continues, finding his voice. “That was me trying to be nice.”

“Well, if it’s not an offer, then I don’t want it,” she says with a shrug, her tone reminding him of their meeting in his hotel room, a deadly and nonchalant response all at once. He blows out a breath.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“Immunity,” she replies almost immediately, and he furrows his brow again.

“What?”

“Immunity,” she repeats. “I let you help me – whatever you think that might mean, and please tell your asshole agents to stop poking me with their needles. In return, you let me go and keep me off the grid.”

Clint studies her face while he searches for words, folding his arms. “I’m not exactly sure that’s a deal my boss is willing to make.”

“Take it or leave it,” she says with a shrug. “It _is_ what you offered, is it not?”

Clint shakes his head. “No. I’ll help you – _that’s_ what I offered. But protecting you when you’re out there continuing to do what you do?” He crosses his arms. “Kind of a fucked up negotiation, Romanov.” 

She flinches slightly at the sound of her name. It’s quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but it’s definitely there and he half smiles to himself, tucks the moment away for safe keeping in the back part of his brain.

She was good – better, even – but she was also human. She had her tells, too, and he was going to find every single one of them if that’s what it took to break her.

\----

Clint paces the exterior of Hill’s office, twisting his hands together half out of nerves and half out of frustration while he waits for the click of the door, the soft, “now, Agent Barton,” from her strong voice.

“Well?” Hill asks in the same harsh tone when Clint has settled himself in front of both Hill and Fury, vaguely accepting the fact that it’s the first time he’s been back in their presence in this capacity since he had run his mouth a week ago.

“She wants immunity,” Clint says finally, watching Hill’s face go dark and Fury’s mouth contort.

“That’s all?”

“No.” Clint shakes his head, taking a breath. “She wants us to give her help, in return for us letting her go and keeping her safe.”

“Out of the question,” Hill responds immediately while Fury remains silent, his gaze moving around the room.

“Barton?” is all he asks when his gaze returns to Clint who shrugs, suddenly feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him at once.

“I think there’s a person in there,” he says, meeting Fury’s eyes. “I don’t know how to reach her yet. But I told you, she could be an asset. With a push, understanding, something…look, you didn’t see what I saw in Brussels,” he finishes. “It’s not a black and white situation.”

“You can’t be considering this,” Hill protests sharply as Fury stands up.

“Should I remind you that Barton is the only one here that she’ll even talk to? In less than a week’s time? She may be unstable, but if that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.”

Hill makes a face and folds her arms. “I disagree.”

“Agent Barton,” Fury continues, raising his voice slightly. “I don’t know why you’ve taken on some personal mission with this woman, or why the hell you care so much when I could barely get you out of bed to take this assignment in the first place. Nor do I give a damn.”

“But?” Clint prompts, unafraid of speaking back, and remembering a time when he would have been.

“But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt if you can keep making progress.”

“Sir!” Hill bursts out, looking visibly annoyed as Fury continues.

“Grant her the deal, _but_ with the condition that we keep an eye on her. She gets medical training, psych evaluations, the works. She’s under your care, and we get to do whatever we need to do in order to figure out what’s going on inside her head. She doesn’t like it, we can send her to the Fridge tomorrow. Simple as that.”

Clint nods, suddenly invigorated, pushing himself up as he takes Fury’s outstretched hand.

“Done.”

\----

_Grant her the deal._

Personally, Clint’s surprised that his superior hadn’t bothered to fight him more on the issue, but he’s also not dumb and knows that a more in depth talking to from either Coulson or Hill is most likely coming in the near future. _Probably Hill_ , Clint thinks a little bitterly, well aware the agent never passed up a chance that involved verbally sparring with him.

He ignores the nagging anxiety pushing into his brain and lets his mind turn to Natasha instead, feeling the slightest hint of a grin settle across his lips for a reason he can’t quite explain. There was still a long way to go before she could ever be trusted – or for that matter, before she could ever trust him. But if she was willing to talk, it meant he had at least gotten through to her, which in turn meant this whole gamble wasn’t a complete waste of time. In the grand scheme of things, Clint knows it’s a small victory, but it doesn’t stop him from practically skipping out of Fury’s office.

“What’s got you all keyed up?” Sitwell asks grumpily as he meets him at the other end of the hall. Clint shrugs, fumbling for his ID and pushing it against the card reader.

“Just finally some things going my way, I guess,” he says as he slips into the stairwell and takes the stairs two at a time. The door at the top is locked, but he manages to pick the lock so that it cracks open with enough room for him to slip through.

It’s comforting to know the view from this part of the roof hasn’t changed, not when Clint realizes that the last time he was up here was well before he had left for Brussels. _“Your therapy place,”_ Sitwell had joked once when he tried to figure out where Clint would disappear to on his downtime and, well, it was an assumption that hadn’t been entirely off base. Short of talking to himself about his own problems, Clint tended to use the solitude to ruminate on everything that he felt he couldn’t think about freely at work, whether it was his own life or the lives of everyone else. He leans back on his arms, staring up at the sky.

It bothers him that he can’t figure out his interest in trying to break her, because it’s different than Bobbi, or even Sue, the girl from accounting who was a good quick bang when it mattered. Bobbi was about control and about struggling to maintain a balance on the same line that always seemed be jagged, and Sue…well, Clint still chalks that up to a lot of feelings that weren’t entirely solved by an impending divorce that (in Sitwell’s opinion) took way too long to actually happen.

And Natasha was certainly about control, but not in the way that Bobbi was. She was also about fulfilling a need to prove, but not in the way Sue was, and Clint can’t figure the whole damn thing out, and he still can’t get her voice out of his head.

_“You.”_

It makes no sense, any of it, the reason why he wanted to save her in the first place and the reason why he feels so compelled to prove that she’s not as much of a monster as she seems, and the reason why he’s sitting on the roof thinking about her at all when he should be focusing on more mundane things like paperwork and what kind of take-out he’s going to have for dinner. Clint turns over on his hands, curling onto his side, staring out at the darkening sky.

No fucking sense at all.

\-----

“Way to go, Barton. Heard you’re getting a criminal out of lock-up,” the guard at the counter says with a smug grin when Clint flashes his ID. Clint smiles tightly as he continues down the hall, suddenly finding himself glad that he’s at least getting out of regular visits to this part of Medical – and by default, the constant hassling from security.

“About time,” Natasha grumbles when Clint pulls open the heavy door, straightening from where she’s been hunched over the bed.

“Sorry,” he says a little sympathetically, reaching for her shackles. “Had to iron out some protocol first. The good news is, you’re going to get out of here.”

“And the bad news is that I get to be stuck with you?” she asks dryly, looking up as he releases her arms. Clint steps back, regarding her with a sigh.

“You know the deal?”

Natasha shrugs, rubbing at her wrists. “You’re gonna scan my brain and try to talk me into feeling bad about my past, and while you’re at it, maybe offer up some insight on why you think I’m so fucked up. Yeah, I got the memo.”

“Jesus,” Clint mutters before he can stop himself. “Would it kill you to drop the sarcasm and be honest for one second, Natasha?” He watches her face change just enough at the words as she spins on her heel, before stopping to look back.

“You _made_ me this way, Barton.” She smiles, her teeth glistening like sharp daggers in the overhead light. “I’m just doing my job so I can get out of here.”

\---- 

The first time Natasha gets her head examined, it all goes terribly, horribly wrong. 

Granted, Clint feels like he could have predicted that to anyone who wanted to listen. The problem – _the problem with all the fucking people who work in this organization_ , he thinks grimly – is that Clint _knows_ no one is going to listen when he tells them about Natasha and when he tells them about how she’ll probably react, even when they’re aware they have a bonafide assassin on their hands, one that could kill them without the use of any tools found in the room.

So despite his warnings, and despite his attempts to be a fly on the wall when they run their first round of tests, at the end of everything there are three doctors with severe concussions, and Natasha has been mandated back to a heavily locked room, and Clint’s on the receiving end of a very long tirade.

“But if they had let me be in there with her –” Clint tries to explain, before Fury cuts him off.

“What the hell are you gonna do, Barton? Examine her brain yourself? Last I checked, you were an archer, not a goddamn neuroscientist.”

“Sir, I guarantee she doesn’t need a brain scan,” Clint pushes, trying to keep himself calm. “I mean, okay, maybe she does, but more than that, she needs someone who understands her.”

“Tell that to the people who I have to now answer to because three of my men are out of commission,” Fury snaps. “What did I tell you, Barton? Anything goes wrong –”

“I know,” Clint interrupts. “I know what you said. Just, give me another chance. Please. One more chance. Hell, take me out of the field if it means I get to watch her more closely.”

Fury’s eyebrows shoot up further than Clint thinks is possible. “You’re advocating for desk duty?” he asks almost incredulously, his voice low.

“Yes,” Clint says, though he can’t help the scowl that he knows slides over his face at the words. “If it’ll make a difference.”

Fury sticks his tongue in his cheek, and Clint can tell he’s suppressing something close to a smile. “Hill will be glad to hear about this,” he mutters, shuffling some papers before looking back up.

“Three weeks out of the field, granted. But at the end of the month, I’m putting you back in. Because while you may make some damn terrible decisions where your personal life is concerned, you’re still one of the best agents we have. And I’m not putting that on hold while you play nurse to some assassin.” 

Clint nods, clenching his teeth to stop himself from showing too much emotion, even though Fury has already turned away, focusing on another folder strewn across his desk.

“That’s all, Barton. You’re dismissed.”

\----- 

Clint uses what he feels has to be on the dwindling end of his privileges as a Level Seven agent to get Natasha out of her locked room and he’s surprised to find her sitting demurely up in bed when he enters, her stance cross-legged and calm, even though there’s nothing holding her back and even though he knows she could attack at any moment.

“Did you bring me chocolates?” Natasha asks and Clint finds himself smiling against his will.

“Sorry, no chocolates. No flowers, either.”

“I hate flowers,” she grouses, but there’s a matching upturn of lips that he swears he can see before her face drops back into a stoic mask.

“I noticed,” Clint returns sarcastically, looking around at the bare white walls, the empty table next to her bed. Natasha sits up a little straighter as he moves his eyes around the room.

“So when do you leave for your next mission?”

Clint shrugs. “I don’t.”

She tilts her head to one side. “What do you mean, you don’t?”

“I mean, I’m not going out into the field for awhile,” Clint says carefully. “So you should probably get used to me, because we’re going to get to know each other really well.”

There’s a sound that he hears, that he immediately dismisses thinking it might be impossible, but then it happens again, and it takes Clint a moment to realize Natasha is _laughing_ , not loud or carefree the way most people would laugh but a bitter, sardonic, almost cruel expression of delight. 

“You Americans are so full of shit,” she says as she struggles to compose herself. “I like you, Agent Barton.”

“Clint,” he replies automatically, ignoring her reaction. “Just call me Clint, okay? I saved your life, you don’t need to be formal with me anymore.”

Natasha pushes her lips together, kicking her legs out onto the bed. “So what now?” she asks in a tone that sounds like a playful dare, and he can tell she’s not at all bothering to take this seriously. “Are you going to try to cut open my head for the second time?”

Clint shakes his head. “No head cutting,” he promises before he takes a breath, figuring as long as he has her attention, he might as well wade deeper into waters he’s only so far dared to wade ankle-deep into. “But I do need you to help me.” Off her look, he holds up his hands.

“I’m not asking you to give me your life story, or for you to make me your best friend okay? I’m just asking for help. I can only buy so much time before my boss decides to throw you back to the wolves for good.”

Natasha stays silent for a long time, before she finally looks up. “I work better with the wolves,” she replies quietly, but he thinks there’s a part of her voice that softens, an edge that smoothes out when the words leave her lips.

_________________________________________

 Natasha’s first introduction to life at S.H.I.E.L.D. is last place Clint would expect to bring her, and at the same time, the only place that feels completely right.

“You can’t be serious,” Hill says in disbelief when he turns in his patented “schedule,” a part of his deal that he hates with every fiber of his being – having to relay his every move to his supervisors makes him feel guarded and untrusted, but he also knows it’s a risk he’s taking to prove that he can eventually get to the point where he won’t have to hand in daily regimens for surveillance and protection.

“Serious about what?” Clint asks, sitting back in his chair and placing his feet up on the almost empty desk. He’s refused the nameplate Hill had half-jokingly offered to make for him during his stint of paper pushing, opting for only two mugs instead – one that held a collection of pens and pencils with broken tips, and one that was perpetually filled with coffee from the Keurig machine at the other end of the room.

“This,” Hill says, shoving the paper down in front of him. “Gym usage. _Gym usage_?”

Clint shrugs, putting his arms behind his head. “What, are you afraid she’s going to kill me? Or are you more concerned that your training center is going to get wrecked?”

“ _Barton_.”

“Look, I may not be good at a lot of things, but if there’s one thing I _am_ good at, it’s sparring,” he continues, letting himself fall forward, the chair legs hitting the ground loudly. “I can hold my own against her. And if I die, it just proves what you’ve been saying this whole time anyway.”

Hill shakes her head, crossing her arms. “Contrary to popular belief, Barton, I don’t actually want you dead.”

“ _You_ don’t,” Clint mutters more to himself than her, pressing his elbows against the table. Hill sighs, letting out a rush of air.

“Please let maintenance know when you’re done,” she says before she walks away, her heels clicking against the floor. “I’d like them to clean any blood off the walls before Fury finds out about it.”

\----

When Clint arrives at the training center, he’s surprised to find Natasha standing by the door, leaning casually against one of the far walls.

“You actually showed up,” she says by way of greeting, moving towards him, and he suppresses the urge to ask how long she’s been here. Everything about their relationship is still a tentative touch and go, but with each interaction, he thinks he might see smaller fragments of her come apart, through her body language and through way in which her tone leans more towards caustic teasing than hostile disgust.

“Of course I did,” Clint says, bristling a little without thinking about it. “You thought I’d miss the opportunity to take you down for real?”

She smiles, flexing her fingers delicately and placing them on her hips, and he finds himself wondering if she’s thinking of their fight on the roof the same way he is.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Clint ignores her, walking towards the closet where S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps most of its gym supplies. “Who walked you down?”

Natasha shrugs, following him from a distance. “Didn’t say his name. Bigger. Annoying. Mexican, I think.”

“Sitwell,” Clint says immediately, and Natasha grins again.

“Your lover?”

“My former partner,” he shoots back without turning around, as Natasha shuffles her feet against the ground.

“What happened with that?”

Clint sighs, rummaging around in the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for. “It didn’t work out. In case you couldn’t tell, I don’t exactly do well with interpersonal relationships.”

He expects a patented sarcastic response but instead there’s silence, and when he turns around there’s a look on her face that he thinks could almost pass as understanding.

“Working alone is always better,” she says cautiously and he nods slowly in response.

“Yeah,” he agrees and there’s another awkward stretch of silence where he waits for another retort that doesn’t come. Natasha finally breaks the silence, waving her arms around. 

“So, are we going to fight, or what? I don’t have all day.”

Clint clears his throat, motioning to the boxing gloves in his hand. “I was thinking we’d start with something a little different,” he says, watching the way her face falls slightly and realizing that for what it’s worth, she probably _was_ looking for a good fight. She takes the gloves from him carefully, inspecting them with a hard eye.

“Afraid I’m going to leave the walls smeared with blood?” she asks as she starts off towards the punching bag. Clint groans.

“Jesus, you and Hill,” he mutters, before raising his voice. “Actually, I’m hoping that you’ll use it and think of me.”

“You?” 

Clint fights down the way his stomach tosses itself at her response and she turns, a hint of amusement flashing across her features. 

“Why?”

“Because I’m probably the person you dream about killing most in this place,” Clint says. “And I figure I might as well give you a target with my name on it.” He shrugs and steps back slightly, nodding as if giving her permission to unleash her rage. Natasha eyes him for a long time, as if trying to decide whether there’s any truth to his statement.

“I don’t need gloves,” she says finally as she tosses them to the ground, aligning herself with the punching bag. She makes two fists and starts to ram them into the hard sides, each stroke becoming more and more agitated and a little more aggressive, until she finally stops and kicks one of the gloves across the room, turning away without looking back.

\----

Among the things Clint starts to learn about Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, this is the first: never let her out of your sight, because she’ll probably give you a heart attack.

She vanishes before Clint can register that she’s even moved, and by the time he’s reached the door to the gym, she’s disappeared completely. Clint stands in the hallway, glancing around anxiously as he tries to calm his nerves. There’s a part of him that knows he’s overreacting, that knows he doesn’t have to worry about Natasha taking the opportunity to run. Or about her bombing the building. Or about her sticking a knife in an agent or two.

_And yet…_

The knot in his stomach tightens as he starts walking faster, his eyes scanning every possible corner and hiding place, until he practically rams right into Sitwell coming out of the break room, knocking a large selection of file folders from his arms and onto the ground.

“Woah, Barton. What the hell!?”

Clint manages to stop himself from looking halfway harried as he stills and meets the other agent’s eyes. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, bending over to help pick up the mess of folders. Sitwell frowns.

“Is there a problem?”

Clint blows out a frustrated breath, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. “I can’t find Natasha,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “I took her down to the gym, but she bolted before I could figure out where she was going.”

“Relax,” Sitwell says, straightening up. “I saw her being led back to her room by one of the junior agents. She’s fine.”

Clint nods, feeling the tension drain from his body at the words. “Good,” he grunts, pushing past him into the break room and grabbing a coffee cup, shoving it under the Keurig. When he turns back around, Sitwell is blocking his path, leaning against the doorframe.

“What?” Clint asks finally, a little frustrated. Sitwell shrugs.

“You know the last time you actually took an interest in someone’s affairs like this? Manic to the point of worrying that they were gonna go off somewhere if you didn’t have an eye on them every single day?” He pauses. “Bobbi Morse.”

Clint glares, taking a large gulp of coffee, feeling it burn its way down his throat.

“Can we fucking forget about Bobbi?” he asks irritably, curling his hands around the purple mug. “She’s gone, we’re done, and I’m trying to move on.”

“With this assassin girl?”

Clint resists the urge to throw his cup across the room. “That’s not what this is,” he says as calmly as he can, and Sitwell raises an eyebrow. “You know that. I’m just trying to get through to her. Get her on our side so that she can be an asset or something.”

Sitwell sighs, shifting his papers to the opposite arm. “Look, you can do whatever you want, Barton. And God knows I’m not going to stop you, especially if Fury’s letting you run rampant. But just try to be careful. Okay?”

“Always am,” Clint responds curtly, walking out of the room before he can continue.

\----

True to form, when Clint walks into the small compartment that’s serving as Natasha’s temporary quarters, he finds her lying on the bed. Her eyes are closed and her red hair is splayed out against the pillow, but Clint can tell from the way her lids are fluttering slightly that she’s not really asleep.

“I didn’t blow anything up,” she says by way of greeting, opening her eyes, giving him that same devious grin he’s starting to get used to.

“Congratulations,” he says sarcastically, crossing his arms. “But next time, at least let me walk you back before you storm off like that.”

“Why, so you can be a gentleman?” Natasha asks, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Clint shakes his head, suddenly too tired to engage in another game that she’s clearly trying to goad him into.

“Forget it,” he says, looking around, for the first time realizing how bare the room really is. There’s a bed and a small desk, and a couple of standard-sized drawers. But aside from the furniture, there are no amenities that serve to make the place even slightly inviting. There’s no coat rack in the corner or a side table lamp, or even a small fridge to keep drinks and food cold during the day.

“Kind of empty, isn’t it?” he asks, continuing to look around. Natasha shrugs, clearly indifferent.

“They don’t trust me with much, apparently. Not that I blame them. Those guys are still in Medical, did you hear?” She seems almost giddy about that fact, and her tone causes him to roll his eyes.

“I’m sure you’re very pleased that you almost killed them,” he says pointedly, and she grins a little.

“Don’t take everything so literally. I’m basically your entertainment now, aren’t I?”

Clint shakes his head. “Whatever. Dinner’s at seven. I’ll come back to bring you down to the cafeteria, unless you’d like another agent to keep you company.” He turns towards the door and is about to make his exit when Natasha’s voice stops him.

“Who’s Bobbi?” 

Clint freezes with one foot raised mid-step, and feels his hands go cold at the same time that his face grows hot.

“What?” he asks, trying to feign confusion, hoping maybe she won’t push, but knowing he can’t get that lucky. 

“Bobbi,” she repeats. “Who is she?”

“Why the hell do you want to know about Bobbi?” he asks a little harshly, wondering how the hell she could’ve found out about that part of his past before realizing that perhaps his chat with Sitwell wasn’t so secret after all. Clint curses under his breath, because he knows first hand that every single wall has ears, and he mentally kicks himself for not taking his own advice to keep private conversations out of the office.

“Why not?” Natasha challenges. “If you won’t talk about it, it’s gotta be pretty significant.”

Clint sighs. “She’s my ex-wife,” he says finally, shoving a hand across the lower half of his face. “We divorced a few months ago.”

Natasha pulls her lips together in the shape of an “o”, as if puzzled by this piece of information. “You were married?”

“To a biochemist, if you can imagine that,” Clint replies caustically. “What, is it so hard to believe that someone could actually want to spend time with me for more than 24 hours?”

“Yes,” Natasha replies with a hint of amusement as Clint scowls, looking away, trying and failing not to let her words affect him.

“Yeah, well. How many relationships have _you_ had running around Europe?” he asks hotly, immediately regretting the words once he sees the look that passes through her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she confesses quietly, looking down. “A lot. And all of them have ended badly, for one reason or another.”

Clint swallows, feeling the sudden change of emotion in the room. “Sorry,” he says haltingly. “I didn’t mean –”

“No one ever ‘just means’,” Natasha says a little carefully, putting her chin in her hands. “It’s fine, Barton. Forget it.” She gets up, heading in the direction of the bathroom.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

\----

The thing is, Clint doesn’t forget it. Not because of the fact that she had brought up Bobbi in the first place – Bobbi, who he refused to talk to anyone about, except for Hill and Fury and Sitwell, and that was really only because of his work situation – but because of the way something in Natasha’s voice had changed when he had responded with his own jab.

He had meant the retort as a joke, and maybe it had come out a little harsher than he meant it to, but considering that she practically made a living out of being sarcastic in their conversations, he didn’t feel like he was entirely out of line. Still, he hadn’t expected that response, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to let it go. 

He comes to collect her as promised a few hours later and they eat at a table in the corner in silence. It’s not an unusual occurrence, as they haven’t had much to talk about when they’re not arguing, and most other agents keep their distance. But it gives _sequestered_ a whole new meaning, and he vaguely wonders if this is how Natasha feels all the time. He’s used to being alone, but it’s usually by choice, and not because he’s trying to alienate himself.

At any rate, their meal is quick, easy, and while the silence is more awkward than Clint feels comfortable with, time passes quickly enough for him to tolerate it. He waits until they’ve both cleared their trays before he leads her out of the cafeteria, and starts steering her down the hallway. 

“Where are we going?” Natasha asks and Clint ignores her until they’ve made it back to the gym. He hasn’t bothered to check if anyone’s using it, hoping that dinner has kept a majority of the agents occupied, and as he pushes open the door to reveal an empty room he’s relieved to find that his instincts are right.

“Do you need me to prove I can kill you again?” she asks a little listlessly, as if even she’s tired of their game at this point, and Clint shakes his head as puts down the long black case he’s been carrying.

“Want to shoot?”

The look of shock across Natasha’s face is impossible to hide and as he snaps open his recurve bow, holding it out to her, he thinks it might be the first time he’s seen her show any kind of candid reaction.

“You’re giving me your bow?” she asks when she finally finds her voice, a little hesitantly. Clint shrugs.

“Sure, if you want. Call it a peace offering.”

She stares at it but doesn’t bother to move, her hands staying limp at her sides, and everything about her is so uncharacteristically hesitant that it’s almost unnerving.

“Go on,” Clint says, thrusting the bow forward. “Really.”

Natasha moves her gaze to the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’ll break it,” she says, something strange taking up residence in her voice, and Clint makes a face.

“Nah. She’s pretty tough to damage, all things considered. And if you do, it’ll just give me an excuse to ask Fury to buy me a new one. With S.H.I.E.L.D.’s money,” he adds lightly. At that, Natasha does look up, a slight smile creeping across her face.

“I’ll break you,” she says instead and he laughs quietly, taking an arrow out of his quiver and tapping the end with his finger.

“I changed all the heads before dinner. Nothing here to hurt me, except regular pointy end shafts.”

Natasha nods, reaching forward slowly, wrapping her hands around the curve of the bow.

“Ever shot before?” Clint asks, keeping his tone conversational as he watches her string an arrow. Natasha nods again.

“Once, when I had to defend myself. And I’ve watched some people,” she says, raising an elbow. Clint furrows his brow.

“Watched some people,” he repeats and Natasha sighs.

“Watched you,” she admits, letting the arrow fly. It’s a decent shot, all things considered – it misses the bullseye but manages to land squarely inside one of the red rings and it’s certainly better than he knows most recruits or even people with minimal training could do. Clint swallows down the lump that’s risen in his throat at her words.

“Good,” he says, pushing the feeling away as she nocks a second arrow. He moves before he can stop himself, until he’s right behind her with his hands on her hips.

“Don’t shift your body so much when you shoot,” he says, ignoring the sudden jolt in his stomach once he notices she’s not bothering to move away like he’s expected her to. “And relax your posture. Inhale, exhale. It’s about trust,” he continues, moving her arms so that they’re level with her shoulders. “Let your body tell you how you should stand.” 

He watches her muscles work as she pulls the arrow back, aligning her feet with his own, watches her shoulders fall as the tension leaves her body. This time, when Natasha releases the arrow, it lands just outside the yellow center, firmly sticking its landing. Clint can’t help but smile.

“See? Not so bad, right?”

Natasha shakes her head, and he can see her throat working to find words that she can’t seem to say. Clint motions to the target.

“Wanna try again?”

He continues to stand behind her, making a handful of comments and adjusting her body accordingly with each shot, until his entire collection of arrows litters the target stand. When she’s done, she hands back his bow in silence and he snaps it up, returning it to the case while she goes to collect the arrows, dumping them in a pile at his feet.

“Sorry I asked you about Bobbi,” she says quietly when they’re in the elevator heading back to the main floor. Clint looks over, seeing the sincere hint of apology in her eyes.

“Sorry I made that comment about your relationships,” he says in response as they step off the lift, approaching her room. She reaches the door first, pushing it open before turning around, meeting his gaze.

“Goodnight, Clint,” she says just as quietly, closing the door in his face before he can respond.

 _________________________________________

Clint’s not sure what happens after that, but something changes.

The verbal retorts don’t stop, but Clint starts to wonder if maybe, at the end of everything, that’s who they are – two people who are comfortable being snarky with each other at the expense of each other’s feelings. It certainly beat walking around on eggshells the way he had done with Bobbi, or feeling like he couldn’t make any comments at all the way it had been with Sitwell. But there’s a strange pull that Clint starts to feel between them, a slight change in trust where she smiles a little more without being able to stop herself, and where he starts to feel a little less worried that she’s going to knife someone to death if he leaves her alone. It’s not exactly what Clint would call success but it’s pretty damn close, and when he gets pulled aside a week and a half later for no reason, Clint knows he’s more or less won.

“I have to hand it to you, Barton. I’m impressed,” Fury says as Clint eases himself into the chair across from his desk.

“Sir?”

“According to reports, you’ve managed to get Romanov stable enough that she’s no longer considered an immediate threat.”

Clint feels the corners of his mouth tick upwards in a smile, and speaks before he can stop himself. “Told you.”

“Nonetheless,” Fury continues, giving him a hard eye, “you’re not out of the woods. I consider this progress, but I’m not about to trust her with any agent’s life. Nor am I about to put her in any kind of situation by herself.”

Clint nods. “Understood,” he agrees, pressing his hands together, falling back into silence because he can tell from the look on Fury’s face that there’s something else he wants to say. 

“We have a situation,” he says slowly. “It’s a hostage issue, a wannabe terrorist group that’s taken a few employees who are working on some top level research that they plan on exploiting. Early agent work, but I want you to go and take care of it.” He pauses. “And I want you to take Romanov with you.”

Clint feels his breath catch in his throat. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Fury replies flatly. “I don’t trust her by herself, but I do trust her with you, and after these past few weeks, it seems as though she does as well. I don’t understand it, but if it works, I’m not going to knock it.”

Clint nods, still trying to digest his supervisor’s words as Fury throws a hand in his direction, signaling the end of their conversation. 

“That’s an order, Agent Barton. You both leave for Budapest tomorrow morning.”

\----

After Clint leaves Fury’s office he goes back to his own quarters, walks the halls up and down, goes to the gym to throw a few punches and then finally stops outside Natasha’s door on he way back, composing himself before knocking lightly. 

“Come in?” 

There’s a curiousness hidden in her tone, and he doesn’t miss the way her face melts into a small smile when he steps into the small room.

“Got a moment?” he asks, which seems like a stupid question in hindsight given that she’s sitting on her bed reading a thick book, but she nods anyway and closes it over one finger to mark the page that she’s stopped on.

“More sparring?” she asks, her eyes lighting up expectantly, and he almost feels a little bad when he shakes his head, seeing her face drop.

“Not exactly.”

Natasha stares at him, looking confused. “Okay, so…what?”

Clint sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, wondering why this confrontation seems like such a big deal, especially when he’s approached her about worse. He takes a breath, talking fast to get the words out.

“Fury wants us in Budapest.”

Natasha’s body goes rigid, her finger unconsciously sliding out from between the pages of the book.

“Budapest? Us?”

“Yes,” Clint says shortly. “Seems to think that you’re trustworthy or something? I don’t know, but you must have been doing something right.” He watches her reaction carefully, the way she seems suddenly skittish and a bit uncomfortable before squaring her shoulders and straightening her body and becoming every bit of the emotionless person that Clint remembers from Brussels.

“Well. I guess I don’t have a choice,” she says, settling back on the bed. “Otherwise, back to the wolves, right?”

Clint breathes out slowly, suddenly realizing reason behind why he had been feeling anxious about this whole thing was because there was the thought that she could say no, that she could refuse to work with him, and even if he could have eventually persuaded her, he knows that the initial rejection would have hurt him more than he’d ever admit to.

“I thought you liked the wolves,” he says in return, watching her shoulders rise and fall.

“Sometimes.” She pauses, as if she’s not even sure of her answer. “But sometimes, it’s better just to be a girl.”

 ----

Budapest would not be Clint’s choice for a mission – too far away for his liking and not enough history to feel comfortable with, as opposed to other places he’s been sent during his tenure with S.H.I.E.L.D.  But he’s not arguing with Fury and he’s certainly not giving up a chance to be alone with Natasha in a way that might finally get people off his back when it came to thinking that she couldn’t be trusted. So he dons his suit and delivers her own make-shift uniform that he’s gotten permission to borrow from a recruit who doesn’t need it, and they board the quinjet together and sit with their knees pressed against each other the whole way. Clint goes over the reports and Natasha takes apart her gun over and over again and they barely speak for the duration of the trip, and Clint tries not to think about how neither of them are bothering to pull away from each other’s touch.

It’s in and out, as Fury’s predicted, a standard mission most agents of his level could complete in under a day. Clint shoots easily and confidently, and soon stops being worried about her getting his back when he can’t see a target because she seems to be doing a pretty good job in the field – though, he thinks as he watches her slit the throat of a man who probably isn’t going to be more of a threat, she might have a little too much fun with it all. But as long as she’s not killing innocent civilians, he’s not really concerned with who or what she takes out.

He happens to be turned in her direction when he sees a man she had previously detained (but, for once, _not_ decided to ruthlessly kill) raise his gun, and there’s no time to think and no time to move, so he throws caution to the wind and propels himself into her path, shoving her to the side as he hits the hard ground.

He registers both the shot and the resulting pain before his brain realizes what’s happened, the impact of his body against the concrete knocking the air from his lungs, leaving him both breathless and immobile.

“ _Clint_!”

He hears a voice and then someone is putting pressure on what he assumes is the place that’s hurting the most because fuck, it _hurts_ , and he can’t help the cry that escapes from his lips.

“Look at me,” the voice demands, severe and barking, and it takes him a moment to realize the person speaking to him is Natasha. He manages a groan, trying to focus.

“What’s your name?” she asks urgently, and the sound of her voice is so intense, it causes him to fight harder against the darkness edging into the corner of his eyes.

“Clint…” Why is this so hard? He _knows_ his damn name. “Barton,” he manages to spit out, feeling something break inside his chest, and suddenly he can’t breathe.

“And who am I?” She’s standing above him, or at least, he thinks she is, a haze of red hair and red hands, the inside of her palm slapping his cheek harshly and bringing him rather annoyingly back to consciousness as she forces his upper body into a position that feels terribly uncomfortable, and one that doesn’t help the fact that he can’t draw oxygen properly. “Who am I?” she asks again, her voice angry. “Come on. _Tell me who I am_.”

“N…Nat…”

It’s enough, he thinks, he hopes, because he doesn’t have the strength for anything else.

\---- 

When Clint opens his eyes again, he sees nothing but a world of white, and he’s pretty sure he might be dead. But then, he’s also pretty sure that any afterlife he’d be granted wouldn’t have beeping monitors, or a symbol that looks suspiciously like a S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle on the walls, or, for that matter, a woman with messy red hair standing over his bed, her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest.

“You’re an asshole,” Natasha says by way of greeting as he forces his eyes open, the bright light causing him to close them again almost immediately. 

“Been called worse,” he coughs out, trying to turn over. She’s at his side almost instantly, pinning him down against the covers with hard eyes. 

“Don’t move,” she says shortly. “They just set your rib a few hours ago. You need to stay still.”

Rib. Great. _So much for getting back in the field_. Also probably the reason why he feels like there’s an anvil sitting on top of his chest. Clint nods and instead concentrates on trying to take shallow breaths that don’t make him want to cry out in agony.

“Bad?” he rasps, trying to think about what he can remember, and realizing if she’s angry and he’s drugged and in Medical it _has_ to be bad. Natasha bites down on her lower lip.

“Twenty stitches. Blood loss. One concussion. And a broken rib,” she says with a nod towards the IV dripping into his arm. “Because god forbid you come in here with one thing.” 

He manages a grin, figuring the feeling of lightheadedness is more due to the drugs that are being forced into his body as opposed to his own bravado. “Doctors love me. Good thing you were there.”

“This isn’t funny,” Natasha replies gruffly, her temper seemingly frayed, and Clint feels his forehead crease as he tries to focus on the way her face changes.

“Don’t tell me you were actually _worried_ about me.”

Natasha says nothing, but there’s a noticeable shift in her features and he smiles again despite the pain.

“Really?”

“Well.” She swallows, her voice suddenly small. “What would’ve happened if you had died over there and I had to come back and explain what happened? Pretty sure everyone would think I was the cause of it.”

Clint laughs as much as he can, given the extent of his injuries, wincing against the discomfort. “Pretty sure everyone here thinks I should’ve been dead five years ago,” he returns. “Lucky for you, my nine lives are still intact.” 

“Thank god for that,” Natasha deadpans but there’s a softness to her retort and Clint swallows down more awkwardness in the silence that follows.

“What happened to the hostages?” 

“I got them out,” Natasha says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “After extraction came and we got you medical care, I went back and I got them out.”

Clint edges up in bed, causing Natasha to glare again, one hand clasping his shoulder as she gently pushes him back down. “You did?” 

“Yes,” she replies tersely. “That’s what we were supposed to do, wasn’t it? That’s what our assignment was? To get everyone out?” 

Clint nods. “Yeah.” He reaches his fingers forward before he can stop himself and watches her hesitate through half-closed eyes, before she allows herself to curl her own hand through his, and at her touch he lets himself fully start to drift off again.

\----

Almost a month after Budapest, Clint wanders into the cafeteria and finds Natasha sitting alone at their usual corner table, her head lowered towards her food and her body turned towards the wall as she fixates her gaze on a heaping of runny, yellow eggs.

“Morning,” he says cheerfully, dropping a wrapped package on the tabletop. “Got something for you.”

Natasha looks up over her coffee, raising her eyebrows, as he sits himself down in the chair across from her.

“Are you sure you should be out of bed?”

“What, were you that lonely without me?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes. Clint holds up his hands.

“Twenty stitches. Blood loss. One concussion. And a broken rib,” he says, rattling off his injuries methodically. “All cleared by Medical, thanks to some really strong drugs and a promise to stay out of the field for at least another three weeks.”

Natasha nods, as if corroborating his words, before looking down at the package again.

“What’s this?” she asks carefully, and he can almost see the way she’s trying to reconcile the fine line between trust and irrational thought. Clint smiles.

“A present. Y’know, for saving my life.”

Natasha gives him a look and he watches her unwrap it slowly, as if it’s something that might kill her, hears the way her breath catches in her throat when she finally sees what’s inside: a black full-bodied uniform, complete with the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia branded on the top of each shoulder. Natasha stares at the outfit and then back up at Clint, her breakfast forgotten.

“I…” She pauses. “I don’t know if I’m ready to wear this.”

“I beg to differ,” Clint says, reaching over to take a sip from her coffee. “Coulson was pretty impressed with the way you handled that op last month. Plus, you saved my life, so that gets you bonus points.”

Natasha remains quiet and he continues to eat off her plate, until she finally speaks again. “It’s…it’s not right.”

Clint raises his eyebrows quizzically, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. “I don’t understand.”

“No. You wouldn’t, would you?” Natasha asks, bitterness lacing her tone. “You’ve never done anything terrible to make people wonder about your morality.”

Clint snorts, dropping the fork back onto the plate. “Are you kidding me? I’ve done a shitload to make people question that. Least of which was bringing you in off the streets and defending you to anyone that would listen, and then trying to make them believe that I hadn’t just made the dumbest decision of my career.” 

“But you’ve never been rewarded for it like this when you don’t deserve it,” Natasha argues back, dropping the suit into her lap, and Clint sighs.

“Just take the goddamn thing, okay Natasha? You don’t have to wear it, hell, hang it in your closet or something and throw a knife at it if you want to. But at least _take_ it.”

She doesn’t answer, her fingers tightening around the part of the sleeve where the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo is stamped into the fabric, and Clint gets up without giving her a chance to respond.

\---- 

Clint’s come to expect a lot of things from Natasha in the time since he’s brought her into S.H.I.E.L.D., both good and bad, but an apology isn’t on that list. So he’s a little more than surprised when she barges into his unlocked room half an hour before what he knows is her scheduled psychology appointment with Medical. 

“Can I help you?” he asks moodily, looking up from the bow that he’s been re-stringing before her interruption. He notices that she’s brought the uniform with her, holding it to her chest as if it’s some sort of shield.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For not sending me a thank you card?” Clint asks a little sarcastically. “Because I don’t know whether you care or not, but it took a hell of a lot to convince everyone that you should get something like this.”

Natasha looks exasperated. “For my behavior, yes. But also because you don’t understand.” 

Clint shakes his head, shoving his bow away. “Then explain it to me,” he says, all but indicating the open space across from him. Natasha rocks back and forth on her feet, as if trying to decide whether she wants to stay or run out the door, before walking forward and sinking down on the bed, keeping a respectable distance between them.

“I’ve done bad things,” she says quietly. “And I don’t feel comfortable wearing something that will make people think I’m a good person.” 

“But you are a good person,” Clint responds, despite the fact that she looks like she wants to throttle him when he says the words. “You proved that the moment you decided to save those hostages, the moment you decided to not let me die on that mission. If you really were this terrible human that you believe yourself to be, your instincts would’ve been different. I know that.”

“Stop,” Natasha says desperately. “Please, stop. You don’t – my ledger is my own, Clint. I don’t want anyone else to be responsible for trying to fix what I’ve done.” She swallows, her voice dropping. “I don’t want to owe any other debts.” 

Clint stares at her, taking in her words. “You think you owe debts?”

“I owe you,” she says, a vulnerable twinge hidden in her husky tone. “You saved my life.”

Clint looks down, unsure of how to respond. “I saved your life so you could start a new one,” he says slowly, glancing around the room. “I saved it so you could be someone who doesn’t have to be defined by the things you’ve done in the past.” He sighs. “I wouldn’t have brought you in if I didn’t believe in you.” 

It’s Natasha’s turn to stare at the floor, before she raises her head again. “You’re terrible at pep talks,” she mutters but Clint notices she’s smiling, and he bumps her shoulder gently.

“Ah, well. I was never one for motivational speaking. Always conveniently missed that course in training,” he says with the same light tone, sharing her grin. When she leaves, he notices that she’s holding the uniform a little less tightly, as if she doesn’t need to protect herself as much anymore, as if she’s less afraid of what it might mean to accept it.

_________________________________________

They don’t get sent out on another mission together until four months later, when Clint’s fully healed enough for Medical to grudgingly sign off on his release for active duty, and although a few months out of commission would have normally made Clint’s skin crawl he finds that the downtime isn’t entirely terrible because he gets to spend time with Natasha.

He actually gets to _know_ Natasha.

Unsurprisingly, she continues sparring on her own, building up strength and training despite not doing much in the way of actual assignments. Surprisingly, however, she’s a constant presence during his few weeks of physical therapy, motivating him with dumb jokes that he thinks she’s picked up from the bullpen or from Sitwell’s idiotic sense of humor. And Clint thinks that if someone had told him he would be sitting in the cafeteria, playing tic-tac-toe on a napkin with an assassin who once tried to kill him, he would have sent that person to the psych ward faster than he could draw an arrow.

A routine mission to collect classified information from a deserted laboratory situated off the Southern Ocean is the first time that they’re more or less forced to share a bed together, the weather conditions of Coastal Antarctica turning on them without warning and forcing them into solitude in the abandoned lab with only one small cot and no heat. Clint ends up on the mattress huddled under a cocoon of blankets and towels and random articles of discarded clothing that he’s managed to scavenge, while Natasha stands across from him, holding her arms to her chest in a failed attempt to stop herself from shivering.

“Come on,” Clint says, exasperation bleeding through the chill that cuts into his bones, making his voice shake. “You can’t be serious.”

“I didn’t sign up for intimacy, Agent Barton.”

“Natasha.” Clint grits his teeth together, both from cold and frustration. “It’s damn near twenty degrees and dropping. Are you really going to let yourself freeze to death because you’re afraid of getting close to me?”

He waits another long minute before she finally relents, grudgingly crawling onto the cot and pressing her body next to him as he lifts the makeshift collection of covers. Clint takes one arm and wraps it around her shoulder, bringing her as close as he can.

“Gun,” she says as he envelopes her, and he watches as she slowly uncurls her fingers from the stem of the glock before clicking on the safety and putting it beside her body. Clint nods.

“Don’t plan on sleeping much, anyway.”

“That’s a relief,” Natasha replies dryly, shaking slightly as a tremor runs through her body. Clint tightens his grip as he pulls her against him, focusing on the heat radiating from her skin. 

“Look, if we actually get out of this, I swear that no one will have to know what happened.”

Natasha snorts. “Walls are pretty thin, even halfway around the world,” she replies. “Wouldn’t doubt that someone’s sending emails about this right now.”

“Paranoia,” Clint mutters. “Always with the damn paranoia.”

She says nothing, but shoots a look in his direction that causes Clint to sigh. “I turned our comm channel off, at least outgoing. When Coulson comes with extraction, we’ll get the incoming call.”

“ _If_ Coulson comes,” Natasha says pointedly, and Clint crosses his legs over hers underneath the covers.

“Look, I may be a screw-up, but I’ve never known my handler to abandon me,” he responds warily. “And believe me, I’ve had a bunch that probably wanted to.”

“No idea why,” Natasha replies resentfully, but he swears he can see the corners of her lip twitch, and he’s pretty sure it’s not a reaction from the cold. “Anyway, you could’ve abandoned me.” 

“I was never going to abandon you,” Clint says a little too strongly and he feels Natasha flinch beside him and this time he _knows_ it’s not from the weather. “And I was serious, about before,” he continues when she doesn’t press the conversation further. “If you want to rest, I’ll take watch.”

Natasha shakes her head, at first slowly and then a little faster. “No,” she says, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I’ll be falling asleep, either.”

Clint frowns. “You gotta be exhausted,” he says, searching her face, and he’s no stranger to knowing how the act of keeping your body alert can put you on an adrenaline rush but they’ve both been up for close to 36 hours and he can already feel the ache that he recognizes as fatigue settling into his bones. 

“So do you,” Natasha points out and Clint closes his eyes for a fraction of a second before opening them again, afraid that if he really does let himself relax, he’ll fall asleep too quickly.

“Old hat. I’m used to being up for hours on end, stranded somewhere with no help,” he says as her hands smooth down the covers, her fingers moving one of the thin shirts over his stomach.

“If I fall asleep, I’ll dream,” she says haltingly, as if she’s trying to figure out how to admit a secret she doesn’t want to share. Clint shrugs, and the muscles in his shoulder scream from tension and from cold.

“Everyone dreams.”

“Not like me,” Natasha replies darkly, her eyes flashing, and he can almost see the way she’s shutting down, like a machine that’s decided it no longer wants to function. “No one has my dreams.”

Clint leans his head back onto the cot, arching his neck. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Natasha replies shortly. “I want you to sleep so I can stay up and make sure that no one will kill us.”

“Natasha –”

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice is as sharp as the gaze that she pins him with. “Go to sleep.” 

He fights her words for a few moments longer before obeying, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on his tiredness rather than the coldness, though he can’t quite help the tremors that roll unconsciously through his body, even as his half-asleep state registers Natasha inching closer, sharing more of her body heat with him. He doesn’t know if he actually sleeps, only that he’s caught somewhere between being somewhat alert and also totally out of it, but at a certain point he realizes he can’t feel the cold anymore and that’s when he does fall asleep more fully, every breath feeling like a struggle from lungs that are tight and frozen.

It’s a stark contrast from when he wakes up, jolted back into his freezing state by a stab of pain in his upper arm, one that cuts through the ice he feels hardening the blood in his body. 

“What the hell?” Clint shouts as another sharp punch makes contact with his skin, before becoming more aware, remembering his surroundings. One hand fumbles over her stomach, his fingers inching for her gun, but she moves quickly and fishes it out from somewhere near her thigh, tossing it away.

“What the hell?” he asks again, this time more grumpily, his brain snapping into realization at the fact that if they were under attack, there would be more surrounding noise and also that Natasha probably wouldn’t act as if he had just stolen all of the covers by accident.

“Sorry,” she says so quietly he almost can’t hear her, and he falls back onto the pillow, pulling up the blankets again.

“What was that?” Clint asks a little more harshly than he means to, shivering again. Natasha moves close again, curling her body back into his.

“I couldn’t…I couldn’t wake you up,” she admits, her voice low. “I tried, but you weren’t waking up.”

“And so you resorted to abuse?” Clint groans. “Hard of hearing, exhausted, probably freezing to death. Not exactly the best combination.”

“I –”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, though, because the rest of her words are cut off by Coulson’s voice and his confirmation of their coordinates, and within ten minutes three men in thick coats are busting down the door of the lab and escorting them onto a waiting quinjet where they’re wrapped in foil blankets and given food and water, and there’s no other real conversation on the ride home.

\----

After a cursory visit to Medical, Clint gives himself at least three hours before heading up to Natasha’s quarters, surprised to find the door partially open and the shades tightly drawn, a single light casting a deep halo around the small room.

“Feeling better?”

Clint shrugs, closes the door quietly behind him. “Nothing a full day of sleep in an actual place with heat won’t fix,” he says, crumpling the S.H.I.E.L.D. branded prescription paper in his palm. She nods, avoiding his eyes. 

“That’s good.” 

Clint stays silent, trying to see if maybe he doesn’t have to be the one who pushes this time, until it becomes increasingly clear that won’t be the case.

“Can I help you with something?” She asks when she finally acknowledges him and it suddenly feels like they’ve regressed to six months ago, back to when Clint was standing in a hospital room and struggling to latch onto any possible way to reach her.

“Yes,” he says bluntly, sitting down on the bed and watching her surprised face. “You were going to say something.”

“What?” Natasha crosses her eyes in confusion and Clint grabs for her hand.

“In the lab, after you woke me up, before we got extracted,” he prods. “You were going to say something.”

Natasha blinks once, slowly, and then draws her arm away. “No, I wasn’t,” she says before continuing to clean her gun, and Clint fights the urge to scream.

“Yes, you were. I know you.”

“You don’t _know_ me, Agent Barton,” she snaps back harshly, her entire body tensing, and he catches the heavy bags underneath her eyes that he was quite sure weren’t there a few hours ago. “And I’m not obligated to tell you anything.”

Clint barks out a caustic laugh, shoving himself off the bed. “Right,” he says, knowing he can’t help the way he’s glaring at her. “My bad. Of course you’re not.”

He thinks he hears Natasha make a noise in the back of her throat, as if she means to respond, but he’s out the door before she can say another word.

 ----

For once in his life, for what he thinks might be the _only_ time in his life, he takes Medical’s advice and shuts himself back in his quarters, outfitting himself in sweatpants, sleep socks and a thick hoodie before crawling into bed. It’s not even ten o’clock and yet it’s easy to fall asleep, though he soon finds himself in another uncomfortable state, this time not from the cold but rather from the thoughts in his brain that won’t quiet. He groans into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut more tightly, realizing he suddenly wouldn’t mind sleeping away the rest of the week, or for that matter, the rest of the year. Hell, maybe if he sleeps long enough, he can convince himself that these past few months have been nothing more than a dream, and he can’t decide whether at this point that would be a relief or a disappointment.

“Clint?”

He jerks awake without really thinking about it, struggling to see in the darkness as the voice materializes again.

“Clint.”

“Yeah,” he croaks groggily, pushing himself up in bed and groping for the light on the side table. “What time is it?” 

“Almost midnight.” Natasha shudders a little as brightness floods the room, and he notices that she’s clothed in the same sweats that Medical had given both of them after their check-up, though Clint hadn’t bothered to take his further than the exam room. “I’m sorry. I know you locked your door, but…” She trails off and Clint yawns loudly, shaking his head.

“It’s fine. I’m not surprised by anything you do anymore,” he says gruffly, and Natasha rocks back and forth with her arms wrapped around her waist.

“Another apology?”

She smiles faintly. “I guess it’s sort of becoming a habit.” 

“You think?” Clint asks irritably, closing his eyes again. When he opens them, he sees her still keeping her distance, as if she’s afraid to come closer, as if she’s suddenly let her guard down to a point where she’s become uncharacteristically vulnerable, and he watches her throat work to figure out how to form the question he guesses she’s having trouble saying out loud.

“You can come into bed with me, if you want.”

She nods slowly, moving across the room as Clint throws back the covers, shifting so that she can find space. Natasha settles herself carefully against the pillows as he adjusts the comforter again, their bodies touching just slightly but not enough, a strange barrier between intimate and detached.

“So you only like to do this kind of stuff when we’re not in danger of dying?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light, and the way she cringes suddenly makes him feel like she’s made of delicate glass, of brittle and weak bones that could shatter at the wrong touch.

“I guess,” she says quietly, reaching over to turn off the light. “I…I didn’t know. About your hearing.”

“Oh.” Clint feels half of his mouth turn up. “Yeah. Lost it when I was younger…kind of a long story. Had two surgeries, but they were only slightly successful, so it turns out I’m only about sixty percent in both ears. Sometimes I use aids, but usually I can get by without them.” He watches the way her expression changes out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry for not saying anything. Just wasn’t anything I expected you to know.” 

“It’s okay,” Natasha concedes, her breaths suddenly coming a little too fast. He puts his hand over her stomach without thinking about it, and feels her sigh quietly as her breathing slows.

“I thought you had died,” she says, and her voice is so soft, he can barely hear her. “I couldn’t wake you up, and I thought you had died.”  
  
Clint feels his own breathing quicken, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, ironically too warm and too uneasy as he considers the fact that it’s maybe the first time she’s been so openly honest with him about anything, least of all about their relationship.

“I said I wasn’t going to abandon you,” he responds tiredly because he doesn’t know what else to say, and because he realizes he doesn’t even know if her answer is what he’s expected. 

“You did,” Natasha agrees forcefully. “But you can’t make promises like that in this world.”

“No,” Clint says, and he feels his words catch as he speaks. “You’re right. You can’t.” 

She moves again and he finds warmth where he least expects it, her head on the rim of his shoulder, her soft skin burning like a fire against his own. He waits for her to move again but she doesn’t, and in the silent room, their shared breathing is the only audible sound.

“You said you had dreams,” Clint says and Natasha moves her head in understanding.

“I do. All the time.”

“What kind of dreams?” he asks softly as something flutters in his stomach, because even though there’s absolutely nothing overtly sexual about this moment, there’s something about the entire situation that’s vulnerable and charged and quietly passionate, as if these secrets are the most intimate things they can share in each other’s presence.

“Different kinds. Sometimes I know who I am. Sometimes I don’t.” She clears her throat. “Sometimes I’m killing people. Sometimes I’m killing myself. Sometimes I feel like I’m dying.”

Clint moves his hand from her stomach to her cheek, resting his calloused palm against the side of her face. “Sometimes you’re scared?”

Natasha takes a breath, and he feels her exhale against his skin. “I spent my whole life running, Agent Barton. No one ever cared about me, not unless I was considered an object that they could control.” She bites down her tongue, and he feels the muscles in her cheek clench at the action. “Why did you?”

 _You._ “I…” Clint trails off, searching for the words he wants to say and also the ones he feels he can’t quite articulate. “I wanted to give you a chance,” he finishes. “I think everyone deserves a chance.”

“Everyone?” she asks and something about the way she’s still trying to refute him feels like a punch to the gut. He nods more firmly.

“Everyone.”

Natasha moves again, and Clint pulls at the covers so that they’re arranged more over her body than his. “Can I ask you something?” he says slowly, his voice barely a whisper, and he hears her breath hitch in her chest.

“Yeah,” she allows, and Clint speaks before he can let himself think about what he’s going to say. 

“Did you mean to come to me? That night, on the roof?”

There’s a long pause and Natasha sits up in bed, slowly pushing her elbows against the mattress. “Yes,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to go to that gala. I paid someone to go in my place once I knew where you were hiding out.” 

Clint feels his forehead fold into lines as he follows her lead, leaning back against the headboard. “Why?”

Natasha looks over, and it’s her turn to appear confused. “You were hunting me, Agent Barton. A wolf likes to be hunted.”

“But not caught,” he reminds her, remembering the chase she had ignited that had led them to the ends of each other’s weapons and into each other’s lives. Natasha shakes her head.

“Not until you tame her,” and there’s a tremor in her voice that makes him wonder if she’s actually going to cry, but the shakiness is gone when she speaks again and she’s turned away so that he can’t see the expression on her face.

“Not until she finds a home.”

\---- 

The next morning, Clint wakes up with Natasha.

She’s fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder, one hand resting gently on the inside of his elbow, and the first thing Clint notices when he opens his eyes is how comfortable he feels. He counts his bed relaxing enough as far as work spaces go, but as much as he’s always been able to sleep with no problem, he’s never quite felt settled, and he’s never been able to exactly pinpoint that off-feeling. He gently untangles himself from Natasha’s grip and sits up, swinging his legs off the bed, throwing a glance in her direction. She’s still sleeping, so far as he can tell, and as he stares at her face he finds himself wondering if she’s dreaming about any of the things that she had opened up about the night before. There’s a look on her face that seems less stressed than he would imagine for someone plagued by nightmares and unmakings, but it’s not entirely relaxed, either, not in the way Clint knows he’s seen when he’s caught other people in the middle of slumber. He makes his way to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and blinking against the water he splashes over his face, and when he emerges a few moments later he finds Natasha awake and curled onto one side, parts of her hair matted and flat against her head.

“Hi,” she says quietly, as if she’s not sure what to say, and Clint finds himself wondering the same thing, because what _do_ you say, because this is all strange and new in the same way to him as he’s sure it is to her. (And because sure, he’s woken up with people he’s worked with before but never with someone he cared about, save for Bobbi.) 

“Hi,” he returns, sitting down on the bed. “Sleep okay?”

She nods, her fingers playing over the frayed white covers, offering a hint of a smile. “For once, yeah. Thanks.”

“Welcome,” Clint answers, meeting her gaze. “And look, if it helps, you’re free to crash anytime here. You know, as long as you’re not out to kill me.”

Natasha laughs softly and he thinks it’s the first time he’s heard anything resembling pure light-heartedness come out of her mouth. “I’m not out to kill you, Agent Barton,” she says as she puts a hand on his knee, and her voice turns suddenly serious. “Not anymore.”

\----

Two weeks following their extraction from Ross Island, Clint’s in the middle of writing up another assignment request when his phone beeps three times in a row, a curt “ _Agent Barton, report_ ,” from Fury’s deep voice following when he picks up the device and holds it up to his ear.

“What kind of trouble am I in now?” he asks warily, walking in and catching sight of both Hill and Coulson sitting on the opposite side of Fury’s desk. In lieu of having a chair, he leans himself against one of the storage cabinets, causing all three of his bosses to look a bit exasperated.

“For once in your life, you’re not,” Fury says a little scathingly. “Try to contain your surprise at that.”

“Huh.” Clint places his hands on his hips, cracking a smile. “Drinks on me, then.”

Fury ignores his comment, looking instead at Hill and then over at Coulson, who both nod as he gets up and leans over the table, two large hands spread out over the mahogany. 

“We want to discuss a change in your assignments.”

Clint feels his heart drop down by his feet, unbridled anxiety eating away at his insides as his mind comprehends the possibility of what Fury’s words could mean. “Is this about Natasha?” he asks and as he forces the words out, he realizes his voice is shaking.

“In a sense.” Fury raises an eyebrow, as if he’s caught his slip of emotion – but, Clint notes, he doesn’t seem to dwell on it. “I know you’ve been working with Romanov, but we want you to work exclusively with Romanov. No other missions, no other duties. We want to train her as an agent, and we want you to be a part of that process.” 

Clint blinks in surprise. “So like…like a partner?” he asks, testing the words out on his tongue, feeling the rock of anxiety in his stomach turn to molten lava, and Fury nods.

“Yes. Like a partner. Agent Coulson will remain your handler for the time being and you’ll both report to Hill under my supervision.” 

Clint feels a smirk crawl over his lips. “A new boss, a handler _and_ a new partner?” He straightens up from his slouch against the cabinets. “Guess you could say I’ve made out pretty good this year.” 

Coulson’s lips twitch slightly while Hill clenches her jaw, and Fury gives him a writhing look. 

“You better not make this a habit, Agent Barton. I don’t want to see you bringing in assassins every other year to add to your collection. This one was enough to last me for a few decades.”

“Don’t worry.” Clint lets his face fall into a full grin as he surveys the faces of his three superiors. “Pretty sure I’ve had all the assassin adopting I can handle for a long time.”

\---- 

“Where were you?” Natasha asks when Clint finally makes his way back to the gym, where they’ve scheduled a rudimentary sparring session. Clint makes a quick decision to give up on trying to control his emotions, because he knows he hasn’t been able to wipe the smile off of his face since he left Fury’s office, and Natasha gives him a wary look as he strides across the floor.

“Cut the crap, Barton. Where the hell were you? You’re never late for sparring.”

“Nice of you to notice,” he throws back, shoving his hands in his pockets as he approaches her. “For your information, I was in a meeting. A pretty important meeting, actually.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Natasha seems distracted, and uses the lull in conversation to lean over and re-tie her shoelaces, pulling a little too tightly on the knots that have started to come loose. “What kind of meeting?” 

Clint hesitates, feeling a little embarrassed and, for all his happiness, slightly nervous. 

“Clint?”

“You’re going to be my partner,” he says, letting the words out a little too quickly, and Natasha freezes with one hand on a shoelace, her fingers clenching around the thin string.

“What?”

Clint lowers himself to the floor at the same time that Natasha crosses her legs underneath her, her sneakers seemingly forgotten. “My partner,” he repeats, holding her gaze. “They want to train you to be an agent, you know, the whole big damn deal…and they want me to work with you.”

She stares at him as if she’s not quite comprehending his words, her eyes focusing on what he thinks might be the boxing ring behind him and the storage closet behind that, and for a long time, she doesn’t speak.

“Natasha?” 

“Partner,” she repeats quietly, as if trying to figure out if the word is one that she can say without stumbling over its letters, like a child trying to speak, and when Clint nods she nods back. 

“I’ve never had a partner.”

“And I’ve had too many partners,” he responds automatically, reaching for her hand, which has fallen by her legs. He feels her stiffen at his touch, before relaxing and curling her own fingers over his palm.

“What’s it like?” she asks carefully, moving her thumb along his skin. “Having a partner?”

“It’s…” Clint tries to think of what he can say that she might understand, something that doesn’t sound overly cheesy, and shrugs. “It’s nice. It’s helpful, to have someone at your back. To have someone that knows you so well, you never have to worry about being on the same page. That’s what a partner is supposed to be, anyway.”

“Like us?” she asks curiously and Clint laughs a little as he thinks of Budapest, of Brussels and Antarctica, of fights and sparring and of lessons in archery, of gunshots and unspoken words and frozen bones and late night confessions.

“Yeah,” he says, feeling something warm spread across his chest, and Natasha smiles faintly.

“I like us,” she decides and Clint thinks it’s the closest thing to acceptance that he’s going to get because somehow, he doesn’t expect what would to other people be a simple yes or no answer, and because somehow, it feels oddly fitting that one of the most important conversations of their relationship doesn’t need that type of conventional exchange.

“Me too.”

Natasha lapses into silence again and Clint gets to his feet, tugging her up with their hands still entwined.

“So there’s just one more order of business, then,” he says after she’s regained her balance. “Your name.”

“My name?” She stares at him in confusion and Clint raises an eyebrow.

“Sure. You get to choose who you are for real while you’re here, which hopefully is indefinitely. No more Sonya or Natalia or whoever you were before this. You get to be one person living one life. I don’t think you really want us to test you for multiple personality disorder, do you?”

She stares at him as if she’s not quite comprehending, and in the space of his joke it takes him a moment to realize that he’s offering her something she’s probably never had before: a choice. Clint suddenly feels anxious, unsure of what reaction he should expect. She could run, he knows, she could make the decision to leave and undo all the hard work that he’s put into bringing out the best parts of her, all the hurt and the pain and the fights and the trust building that’s taken place over the past few months.

Or she could stay, and she could trust that what he said so long ago in a small hospital room was true: that he wants to help her, and that he’ll continue to help her and support her, for as long as she’ll willingly stand beside him. 

“Natasha,” she says softly when she finally speaks. “Natasha Romanov.”

“Romanoff.” Clint smiles. “Like the Imperials, huh?”

“ _Romanov_ ,” she emphasizes a little more strongly, and the way she responds makes Clint wonder how long its been since she’s used anything close to her real name without worrying that someone’s going to hurt her.

“Okay,” Clint says with a grin. “Romanov. I like it. So, tell me, Natasha Romanov. I know we’re supposed to spar, but your first official order of S.H.I.E.L.D. business is to show me what you've really learned from training – what's the cafeteria serving on Tuesdays?” 

Natasha meets his gaze, something light dancing within her pupils, and puts her free hand on his waist.

“Well, Barton. Tuesdays would be commonly known as meat days…”


End file.
